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“A few more might still be alive,” I say bitterly, but catch myself. “And personal? Shit. It’s only inked on my skin forever, babe.”
She laughs, ringing my ears pleasantly.
“Seeing your tattoos tells me how serious you are, yeah. I mean, ever since I’ve had a chance toreallylook at them.”
“I think you mean taste them,” I say, my cock twitching at the memory of her tongue on my skin.
Her eyes dance mischievously.
We both just know.
Last night, I finally gave myself a breather after we exploded together three times.
She rested on my chest, running her fingers and lips over every patch of storming ink on my skin.
I told her about the trident, and even the three black triangles on my left bicep. They’re the latest additions, one for every man in my unit who never came back from Syria.
I wouldn’t tell her how or where, but I cracked.
I said enough.
I told her it was for them. The fallen.
Comrades in arms, men just like me who were only a little less lucky—victims of a fate I tempt every time I accept another mission with Enguard Tactical.
But I also told her it’s who I am.
It’s what I do.
It’s how I make sense of myself and my place in this clown car of a world.
It’s how I forget my rotten-ass days with a mother who always used me as a tool and the gaping chasm of civilian life built on the roofs of blood, sweat, and screams.
“You remember what I said last night? My ink, my life,” I tell her. “I was done with walls years ago, Delia. I don’t hide or water myself down for strangers. If that makes me rude, so be it. You know exactly who you’re dealing with.”
“Do I?” She quirks an eyebrow. “I guess you gave me a pretty good idea of what it’s like being you, and everything you deal with. But there’s a lot I still don’t know, Chris.”
I shrug, tucking into my filet mignon. “Just ask. You ought to know there’s no need for shyness after everything we’ve done this week.”
I lean in when I say the last part, grabbing her hand across the table.
Her fingers squeeze mine slowly.
That blush on her cheeks strokes me hard enough to drive nails.
I meant what I said, though.
The girl has no reason to be shy when we’ve been fucking like maniacs.
She holds her glass up to her lips for a long time, drinking slowly, like she’s stalling to find the right words.
“Okay, so, um, let me ask you this... Why is Evie such a bitch?”
The way she blurts it out makes me drop my fork.
It echoes loudly on my plate as I laugh.
“You’re asking the guy who’s wondered that his whole life,” I say, trying not to sound bitter. “If you’re worried about my ma, give me something specific.”
